The Space Between
by S. Faith
Summary: In some ways, the first movie ends at the worst possible moment. What happened next? Here's a little speculation and quite a bit of... well, you know. Rated M for language and adult themes.
1. Part 1

**The Space Between**

by S. Faith ©2006

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

A look at what might have happened between the end of _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the beginning of _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_.

**Part 1**

**Friday 29 Dec**

Stunned did not begin to describe how Bridget Jones felt: Mark Darcy had read that bloody diary, stayed anyway – _stayed anyway!_ – and to top it off, had bought her a new diary. Her senses quickly returned and as she flew across the snow-dusted sidewalk to throw her arms around him, getting up on her toes to bury her face into his neck, she felt as if she might burst with happiness. 'Mmmm,' she thought. He smelled like musk, his cheek ever so slightly scratchy with stubble. Had he come here straight away from the airport? Too good to be true.

She pulled back to look to him and found she couldn't look away, even if she wanted to. Slowly their lips met for the first time. The gentle, tentative kiss quickly turned passionate, even hungry. Raising her hand to his face, she wove her fingers into his hair, then wrapped her arms around his neck. She never would have had the slightest inkling this side of him existed; never had she been kissed so exquisitely or with such evident want. Never. He was no prematurely middle-aged prick, not by a long shot.

"Wait a minute." Bridget heard her own strangely discombobulated voice speak from a million miles away. "Nice boys don't kiss like _that_." She realized she was grasping his lapels very tightly indeed.

His reply wasn't spoken so much as emanated past his lips in a low, guttural rumble, only the most miniscule hint of his cultured veneer remaining: "Oh yes, they fucking do." There was a beat during which she struggled to believe she'd heard those words come from his mouth, but as her lips met with his again, coherent thought all but ceased. Standing there in the middle of a snow flurry, she didn't care that her bottom was only covered with the tiniest knickers she owned, nor did she care that old lady passers-by were staring at said bottom.

Soon she found herself enveloped within the warmth of his coat, and she slipped her hands across the cotton of his turtleneck to wrap her arms around his waist. He continued to kiss her, still holding on to that diary, stopping only to breathe warmly (and rapidly) into her ear. "Perhaps your flat would be better suited for this."

"Yes," she managed, resting her temple against his chin, feeling her teeth involuntarily chattering. She couldn't agree more.

He kept her within the cocoon of his coat as they walked the interminably long block back. As they approached the building, she noticed that the oddball neighbour she had encountered on her way out of her building (sporting the most disreputable black and red plaid cap ever to exist) still stood by the front of the building, and now he let her back in, presenting her with a thumbs-up. She smiled gratefully, bashfully to him as they slipped past. She led Mark up the stairs by the hand, one of his fingers caressing her palm in a very distracting manner. He paused to set the diary down on the end table, and deposited his overcoat, scarf and gloves onto the blue chair. The window she'd lifted before in her frantic search for Mark was still raised, letting in cold air, and still shivering she walked over to lower it. As she finished latching the window, she was surprised to find him directly behind her, tugging the thin grey cardigan sweater down her arms and tossing it to the floor. He then ran his fingers back up her bare arms to her shoulders, causing her to quiver anew, and not from the cold. Hovering just above her ear, grasping her shoulders with very warm hands, he said quietly, "If that's all right." She turned around to face him, then stepped away from the window, their gazes locked. He stepped forward to follow her.

'More than bloody all right. Ohhh. Except…' At once she remembered that the past few days had been spent in something of a funk, and her usual attention to grooming had been somewhat lacking. She realized she felt like a garden gone to seed.

She must have suddenly looked quite mortified, for his face fell and he stopped in his tracks, looking wounded; his voice was low and quiet. "So… it's _not_ all right." It was more of a statement – a dejected, pitiable statement – than a question.

"Oh no no no no _no_!" She waved her hand, shook her head vigorously, as if there was the tiniest possibility he might misunderstand the word 'no'. "It isn't that at all. Just not… _prepared_."

He looked reassured, but still serious. "If it's protection you're worried about, I have—"

"No, not that either… though _well done_…!" she added with a nervous chuckle. "What I mean is… just… hairy as yeti in _all_ the wrong places, haven't washed hair today, flat is total ruddy disaster—" She stopped. Great. Damn her faulty internal editor. He ran his fingers through his hair; now that she'd completely turned him off, he was probably mentally composing a goodbye speech.

"Bridget," he began, fixing her gaze with his own. She steeled herself for the rejection. "I happen to _like_ the way your hair smells, your flat _isn't_ the one I'd rather like to take to bed, and I couldn't bloody well care less about a bit of hair on your legs."

Bridget was rendered temporarily mute, save for a silent "oh". She blushed deeply, looking down. Definitely Most Perfect Man Ever. All at once, she felt quite unworthy and extremely underdressed. Being Most Perfect Man Ever, it did not escape his notice that she'd taken up the same modest pose Venus herself has assumed in countless Renaissance paintings and statues. He strode forward, took hold of her wrists, and placed them to her sides. His appreciative smile was disarming. She took in those liquid brown eyes and softly waved chestnut hair, and all memories of reindeer jumpers were banished at once from her head. She opened her mouth to retort, but he held up a single finger to stop her.

"Don't you _dare_ disparage my taste," he said gently.

Either Most Perfect Man, or Space Alien. Regardless, she wanted to shag him senseless. She then thought with some amusement that Mark Darcy would _never_ be caught dead saying the word "shag".

He placed his hands upon her hips and pulled her against him, kissing her once again, fingertips moving to toy with the elastic edge of her ridiculously skimpy tiger-striped panties. That was _definitely_ not a mobile in his pocket. Her head was swimming. As his teeth grazed her bottom lip, it was only his arm encircling the small of her back that kept her from actually falling backwards. She could feel his mouth smile against her own, and he broke away to speak in a low voice into her ear. "Nice to see that a man who wears the snowman neckties his mum buys him still has it."

"Indeed, Mr. Darcy." She found her feet again, but he did not relinquish his hold on her.

"So, Ms. Jones," he continued in that same muted tone, "am I going to have to fight two meters of detritus to get to your bed, or shall we drop to the floor where we are?"

The latter had merits, but visions of limping the following morning caused her to step away from him, pulling him towards her bedroom by the hand. "Chuh," she said dismissively. "It's just a _few_ things to push out of the way."

She might have been understating things, she realized, as she looked again at the state of her bedroom, which had obviously been abandoned in mid-decision-making-crisis. It seemed every garment she owned had been strewn about onto every available surface and a few that weren't. She pushed the pile on the bed off onto the floor and the bedclothes back towards the far side of the bed, and sat on its edge.

He switched on the bedside lamp, switched off the light at the door. He crouched at her feet, sliding his hands up her legs and under the hem of her tank top. "Want to warn you," he whispered, as he slid his hands even higher, "I've just been on two trans-Atlantic flights, and may not be adequately up to the task."

"Something tells me you'll shore up just fine," she said softly, her arms encircling his neck to pull herself down into his kiss once more.

**Saturday 30 Dec**

Bridget drifted half in, half out of sleep, emerging from a dream, the most _marvelous_ dream, and it included—

Her eyes opened wide, looked to her left, and she realized that, ohhh, it had been no dream. She could see in the dusky early morning light that there in the bed beside her was the serenely sleeping Mark Darcy, his face peaceful in repose, brown lashes upon his cheek, right arm beneath his pillow, the other over the sheet that just came up to the middle of his broad chest. She could not help but smile. Reining in the urge to reach out and touch him to make sure he was real, she turned onto her left side, laid her head on her folded arm and watched him sleep.

As if sensing her gaze, he slowly opened his eyes, looked at her through half-lidded eyes, then mumbled, "Bridget. What are you doing?"

"Just watching you sleep."

"Please don't." He closed his eyes again.

She did not budge.

"_Bridget_," reiterated his voice several minutes later. "_Please_."

As she spoke, her voice was hushed like a chastened child's. "I'm sorry, I can't help myself. I'm still trying to convince myself that you're really here. I mean, twenty-four hours ago I thought you were in New York for good with bloody _Natasha_, and that I'd never see you again."

"I am _really_ here, Bridget… and _really_ tired." He opened his eyes again, looking extremely severe until he mustered a sleepy, lopsided grin. "You know how to wear a fellow out." He reached out his left hand and lightly brushed her arm with his fingertips. The corner of her mouth turned up, and she snuggled into the warm circle of his embrace, resting her cheek upon his shoulder. Mmm. He _must_ be a Space Alien, because he still smelled good. She brought her hand to rest on his chest, tracing a lazy circle in the fine mat of hair there as she felt herself slipping back into slumber.

…And jerked back out again as he began placing tender kisses on her temple, also tracing a line with his finger along the sensitive skin of her jaw to her shoulder. She tilted her head back; he kissed her fully on the mouth as his arms tightened around her shoulders and waist, pulling her on top of him.

So much for sleep.

* * *


	2. Part 2

**The Space Between**

by S. Faith ©2006

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

A look at what might have happened between the end of _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the beginning of _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_.

**Part 2**

**Saturday 30 Dec, Cont.**

The sun was fully risen when she next awakened, and this time, the bed beside her was empty. Moment of terror. Meekly she called out, "Mark?" She grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around herself, tiptoeing to the threshold of the bedroom. 'Please don't be gone, please don't let there be a note tacked to the fridge saying "GAH! Hugest mistake ever!"—'

She called out again, "Mark?"

…and then she stopped.

What was that smell? _Bacon?_ She furrowed her brow. She went into the kitchen to see that Mark, dressed in an undershirt and uncharacteristically wrinkled trousers, was hovering over her range as if he were cooking. Wait a minute… he _was_ cooking! Mmm! Breakfast! Coffee! Hunger got the best of her, and she padded towards him just as he turned. He took her in with an approving look, and she realized she had been so concerned he was gone that she hadn't bothered to check what a fright she must have looked. "Good morning, Bridget," he said. Her heart flip-flopped.

She smiled timidly, wanting to dive into the bathroom to brush her teeth, comb her hair or even shower, but for some reason remained rooted in place.

"Hope you're hungry for eggs and bacon."

She nodded.

"Milk in your coffee? Sugar?"

She nodded again.

"Cat got your tongue? Or maybe…" He mimed patting down his own trouser pockets. "Hm. Nope, don't have it."

"Sorry, no," she admitted with a sigh, feeling pathetic, smoothing down peaks and horns of hair with one hand and holding the sheet up at chest level with the other. "I just can't imagine what a sight I must be… and look at you, being all sweet and perfect and making breakfast."

"Come here." She did just that and he cupped her face in his hand, lifting her chin. "You won't believe me, but you look absolutely…. Hmm… may I suggest you _do_ put something on before I forget that I care about burning breakfast?"

* * *

Mark served up breakfast on her little-used dinner plates on the dining room table, she now clad in her pyjamas. He sat at the head and she sat to his left, the corner between them. She dug in with great vigour and honestly hadn't tasted anything so wonderful in eons, but that might have had to do more with the appetite she'd worked up than anything else. She told him so.

"I was highly motivated to make a good impression," he said.

"Oh, you succeeded." His smile told her he knew she meant more than breakfast. She sipped her coffee, and popped the last bit of a toast point into her mouth. Then she thought for a moment. "Did I actually _have_ eggs, bacon, bread and coffee?"

"No."

She furrowed her brow. "Then where…?"

"The market down the street. I appropriated your keys." She saw the corner of his mouth turn up wryly.

They continued to eat for a number of comfortably quiet minutes, until he raised his eyes to her and their gazes met. She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling at a loss for words. In the past, the 'morning after' for Bridget had often been weird, awkward, and even at times nonexistent. Thus far it hadn't been any of those things. Mark was different than most in many ways, but especially in that she wasn't anxious for him to leave; rather, she was anxious that he would. She didn't want to do or say anything that would hasten his departure.

Admittedly, though she really liked him and he clearly liked her, they didn't really know each other all that well. The number of times they'd encountered one another over the last year could probably be counted on one hand. He was a barrister, while she worked in tabloid television. What did they really have in common? Oh God. He'd probably get bored and leave before too long. He was also used to hobnobbing with the social elite; she felt emphatically common, and decided on the spot to never use the word 'shag' again.

"So," she said with a calm she did not feel.

"So," he repeated.

She asked the first thing she thought of: "Did you sleep well?" Gah! As if he were merely a guest who stayed the night on her sofa. Immediate regret washed over her.

He only smiled again. "I slept very well indeed." After a beat, he added, "That is, when I actually slept."

Slight embarrassment mixing with pride, she looked down. "Um."

"I'm not complaining." He reached out a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek, then lifted her chin up with his fingertips. His gaze had become mesmerizing and smoky, and she was unable to break it. "Not complaining at all."

Maybe conversation was overrated.

She met him halfway as he bent towards her. She felt his eager fingertips at the back of her head, which traveled down to her shoulder to settle on her hand, and he took it in his own. He stood and pulled her to her feet.

The uneaten remains of breakfast grew quite cold.

* * *

Grateful for a chance to do a bit of bathing, Bridget left Mark sleeping off his intercontinental exhaustion to step under the tap with a washcloth and a bar of soap. She had washed herself up in the tub, then had gotten as far as scrubbing her face at the sink when she heard footsteps outside the bathroom and a voice calling for her.

"I'll be right out." She splashed warm water on her face, blotted it with a towel, and with the comforter from the bed wrapped around her shoulders, she opened the door and looked to him inquisitively. He had a cotton sheet around his waist.

"Was just wondering where you'd gone. Ah." He spotted the washcloth beside the sink basin. He stood against the door jamb, arms folded across his chest, his expression one of satisfaction.

"Was just feeling a bit crummy," she said, her fingertips running along his forearm. "All better now."

He reached out to take her into his arms, planting a kiss on her temple, inhaling deeply. "Yes indeed."

Later, he commented languorously, "I don't know what sort of soap you use, but I just may have to buy stock in it."

* * *

Thank God for delivery.

They sat curled together on the sofa under a blanket, eating pepperoni and cheese pizza, drinking wine, and half-watching the news on the telly. The sun had long gone down on the best day of Bridget's life so far, and it showed no signs of ending yet. As they kicked the empty box away and snuggled sleepily on the couch together, Mark spoke. "Bridget, I have regrettable news."

She sat up, turned to look at him, slight alarm evident on her face while his own was oddly impassive. As if sensing her unease, he continued, "It isn't anything major. I just… I'll have to go home soon. I have a lot to do this week, including a trip to Inns at Court."

She felt suddenly, irrationally guilty. She was glad that he had returned from New York for her – Most Perfect Man and all, and without a doubt Best Shag Ever – but he'd given up so much. Watching her features play this drama across her face, he smiled and stroked her hair, patting down stray wisps. "Bridget, you are as transparent as a pane of glass. I'm confident I'll be invited back. I haven't made a single sacrifice I didn't want to, or couldn't afford to."

He leaned forward to kiss her when the telephone rang shrilly, giving them both a start.

"I'll let the answerphone get it." Most sensible thing she ever said.

He nodded, moved towards her again, then was startled by—

"Hellooooo darling!" Oh, heavens. It was her slightly off-center mother, Pamela. "Sorry you aren't in, because I've got wonderful news! Just heard from Elaine Darcy that her Mark is back, _back!_, from New York! He's left behind that harpy, and with the Turkey Curry Buffet in two days, you _may_ just get another chance! See you at lunch tomorrow, darling! Byeeee!"

Stunned silence, followed by howls of laughter erupting from the sofa. If she only knew. Radiant and flush, and still grinning, they moved to kiss once more.

The bloody phone, again. Answerphone, again.

All that could be heard this time was, well, what sounded like smooching sounds, then the unmistakable voice of Jude: "Briiiiiiidget! Didn't go to Paris after all! We're at 192 – come down!" Then Sharon: "Well, if you _want_ to fucking come up for air!" Laughter nearly obliterated Tom's voice, fainter, further away in the background: "_I_ wouldn't!" Sounded like they'd had a head start on drinking. The call then disconnected.

Bridget turned purple with embarrassment. 'Will kill them. Slowly. Painfully.'

Mark looked a bit self-conscious himself. Clearly he was not used to having his personal interactions with women analyzed from every angle. "Well, I'm sure they're just… dying to pry information out of you, what happened after they left."

"Oh, undoubtedly. But some things a girl likes to keep to herself. Besides, Shazzer's right." She swung her leg over to straddle his lap, leaned forward and kissed him. "I _don't_ want to come up for air just yet," she said tenderly.

* * *


	3. Part 3

**The Space Between**

by S. Faith ©2006

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

A look at what might have happened between the end of _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the beginning of _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_.

**Part 3**

**Sunday 31 Dec**

Oh, bollocks.

There was the sun, shining defiantly from a place in the sky that confidently told Bridget that not only was morning but that it was certainly past the time for her to be up and getting ready to meet her mother. And there was a head full of short, wavy brown hair impeding her ability to sit up on the sofa where they'd fallen asleep.

She whispered desperately, "Mark! _Mark!_"

He jerked awake. "Oh, damn." He sat up, combing his hair back with his fingers, as she apologized at great length for keeping him another night when clearly he had a lot of _important_ things to do for the week ahead and—

He stopped her from talking by kissing her. "Bridget. Don't look so distressed. I can ring up Jeremy," he said quietly. "Everything else can wait. I'd rather stay with you."

She was nonplussed. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." He seemed to consider something for a moment, his fingers stroking his chin. "Though I may need to pop home and grab a few things. Like my razor. Some clean clothes. And restock on… other items." He cleared his throat. "And you, Bridget, you must summon the best phony cough you can rally and ring your mum that you're sick…"

Mark Darcy, advocating truancy for a family obligation? It seemed so very wrong. The man was filled with all sorts of surprises. Like the words that he spoke next.

"…because right now, I can't get enough of you."

* * *

Having done an admirable job of playing sick over the phone, Bridget stood by the window. She'd intended on showering while Mark ran his errands, but she could do little more than gaze lazily out onto the snowy street below with an indelible grin on her face. She was dressed in nothing but the turtleneck shirt he'd worn when he'd arrived (which came halfway down her thighs), her arms wrapped around herself almost as a placeholder until he returned – she'd sent him home in only his undershirt, trousers and coat, insisting on keeping the shirt while he was gone.

The phone connected to the front door intercom buzzed, bringing her from her reverie, and she hopped to answer it. "Come on up!" she said, pressing the button to open it without thinking.

She swung open the door of her flat, huge grin on her face and was suddenly horrified to see not Mark Darcy heading up, but…

Oh no. It was her mother, who chose that moment to look up and engage her daughter's eyes. There was no time to change or cover up, let alone straighten up the flat.

"You're _alive_! Thank goodness!" she exclaimed in her usual overly-dramatic way. Indicating a brown paper bag folded over at the top, she continued, "I thought maybe you'd like a bit of comfort food, always liked this when you were a small girl— _Bridget!_ What's that you have on?"

The urge to slam the door shut in her mother's face became overwhelming, but it was too late; her mother strode across the threshold.

"Did you hear me, darling? What are you wearing?"

"Um…" She pushed up the sleeves in order to hide the fact that they hung down past her fingertips.

Pamela looked around, spotting Mark's forgotten scarf and definitely-man-sized leather gloves resting on the blue chair, the pizza box, two wine glasses, and the overall more-than-usual disarray of the flat. She may have been a flighty woman but she was not unobservant, and quickly put together two plus two. "Oh. Ohhhh. I sense I've come at a… bad time." In a lower tone, she added, her tone scolding, "You're not sick at all, are you?"

"No mum, I'm not. Sorry for the fib." Noticing her mother was looking very nervously around herself, Bridget added, "Don't worry, there's no one else here now."

Her mother's face brightened. "You did get my message then?" At Bridget's nod, she continued, "Fabulous news, isn't it? Though, well, I suppose you don't think so now…" Her gaze connected with the wine glasses accusingly.

Why did she hesitate to tell her mother that the man she'd been trying to fix Bridget up with for the better part of eighteen months was the same man whose arrival back to her flat was imminent at best? Perhaps she liked having this little secret all to herself, an oasis in the world of insanity in which she normally resided.

However, she resigned herself to the inevitable. "No, mum. You see… in fact…"

The front door intercom buzzed again. "Ah. Just one moment." She returned to the phone and raised it to her ear, this time offering a greeting and waiting for a response.

"Bridge, it's Tom."

"Tom!"

Her mother's head snapped around at the sound of Tom's name, then looked back to last night's leftovers. Bridget knew what Pamela was thinking and shook her head vigorously. (It was Pamela's opinion that if Tom just stopped "being lazy" he could find a woman and drop that "homo" business. Best to derail that train of thought before it left the station.) "Tom," she continued in a whisper. "It's not the best time. I'll try to call you later."

"Oh, is Mr. Tall-Dark-&-Handsome still— well, no," Tom's tone changed to bewildered, "of _course_ he's not, because he's walking this way. What is going on?"

"Mother. Is. Here," she hissed sub-audibly into the phone.

Tom realized the seriousness of the situation immediately. "Right. Well, I'll just ring you up later or something, as you've got your hands full here." Just the slightest hint of double entendre, damn that man. "I'll give you to Mark."

After a moment of silence, during which Bridget could hear Tom give Mark a hissed "_Mother!_" warning, Mark's authoritative voice came on the line. "Bridget, pretend I'm still Tom and pretend I need to desperately meet you for coffee. When I see your mother leave, I'll ring again."

She smiled conspiratorially, filled with a bursting adoration for him. Obviously he didn't want to let her mother in on their little secret just yet, either. Obediently she said, in the most serious voice she could muster, "Yes, Tom, I'll come down soon as I can. Right. Coins, in twenty minutes. Bye."

Bridget turned with pleading eyes to her mother, who amazingly had been silent during this entire exchange. "Mother, Tom's having a major crisis with Jerome, and an urgent tête-à-tête is required. I appreciate the lunch but I need to get myself together and head down there."

"You _will_ be down for the buffet?"

"I'll be there," she advised in a resigned tone. She reached over, pecked Pamela on the cheek, and corralled her mother out the door in a manner Pamela herself would have been proud of.

Several minutes later, the phone buzzed again. She answered with a neutral, "Hello?"

"The coast is clear, as they say."

She pressed the button to allow Mark passage.

He entered wearing a navy cotton jumper and blue jeans (Blue jeans! Really, she thought she'd seen everything) and bearing a little travel case (Tom would never let her hear the end of _this_ one). He shed the coat, and as she flew into his arms, the smoothness of his cheek and slight dampness of his hair as she threaded her fingers through it told her he'd stopped to shower and shave.

"Mission accomplished," he murmured. "Jeremy assures me they'll have me back as of the second."

"_Bloody_ brilliant," she replied, relieved.

He stepped away from her and surveyed every inch of her. She knew she looked no different than she had when he left. With mock sternness, he said, "Please tell me you didn't spend the whole three hours mooning and staring vacuously out of the window."

She tried to effect an indignant expression but failed because he was completely right. "I _also_ phoned mum sick, practically verge-of-death sick! I was _really_ good, so good my mother came, you saw her, and—!"

He laughed, short and sharp, took her by the shoulders and directed her towards the bathroom. "As fetching as you are in my shirt, it's time for shampoo and soap, Ms. Jones. And it is only the height of restraint on my part that I'm not going to join you to personally supervise the process."

* * *


	4. Part 4

**The Space Between**

by S. Faith ©2006

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

A look at what might have happened between the end of _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the beginning of _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_.

**Part 4**

**Sunday 31 Dec, Cont.**

The hot water felt like a blessing as it sluiced over her blonde hair and ran down the length of her body. She hadn't really realized how much she needed the heat and steam of a full-on shower. She was ashamed to admit it, but she was sore all over; it was a good kind of sore, but sore nonetheless. Out of shape, out of practice, but she didn't care. Every aching muscle was well worth it. Squeezing herbal shampoo into the palm of her hand, she languidly lathered up, fighting the impulse to wash up as quickly as possible and rush back out to him. He'd amply demonstrated that he really wasn't going anywhere, and if he did go, he came back.

She fell into a daydream as she traced the soapy loofah over her skin, revisiting the whirlwind of hours since he'd turned up on her doorstep, how surprisingly ardent he was, how patiently understanding, and how much he clearly adored just being with her. She could easily fall in love with him.

With the loofah midway down her raised calf, she froze as the very thought thwapped her between the eyes. Surely too soon for that…? She shook her head. No sense in over-thinking things.

After running the a razor over her legs and under her arms, she wrapped her terrycloth robe around herself, cinched it closed, and turbaned her hair into a towel. She looked at herself in the mirror. For once she was momentarily convinced she saw, instead of a slightly chubby blonde thirty-something Singleton, a happy young woman. Hmmm.

When she stepped outside of the humid warmth of the bathroom and padded towards the living room to find Mark, she realized something seemed enormously different. She couldn't immediately place what it was, but then it came to her: the flat had been straightened up to the point where it didn't look like a tornado had blown through. The blankets were folded neatly over one arm of the sofa, and with his head resting on folded elbow on said blankets, Mark was apparently sound asleep. He must have cleaned at record speed, then sat to wait for her to finish in the bathroom. Certainly he was the first man she'd ever had clean up the place after shagging, a record two days of shagging, no less. She was extraordinarily touched by the gesture.

She sat beside him, placing a warm pink hand on his jeaned knee. His eyes flickered open, and when he saw her, he mumbled apologies and sat up straight. "Nice look on you," he quipped, placing his hand over hers.

She was about to reply when her stomach made a rather rude rumbling sound; her face blazed in response. Instinctively she placed her free hand on her abdomen. "Sorry. Not very attractive."

Mark patted the hand on his knee. "It's been a while since coffee and chocolate croissant this morning. I'm hungry, myself." He stood, pulled her up by the hand, then pressed his lips to the back of it. "Why don't I venture into the bag and serve it up while you get dressed?"

"Brave soul." She smiled warmly, watching him walk towards the dining table, where the paper sack containing the mystery lunch sat. "And on the subject of things domestic, thanks for tidying up. It's so small here it doesn't take long to get mussed and for me to start feeling like it's all closing in on me."

As he picked the bag up, he looked to her again, appearing quite serious and thoughtful. "I don't think it's too small at all. It's cosy and full of character. I rather like being here."

"And I rather like you being here."

They smiled at one another until she forced herself to turn towards the bedroom, realizing that if he'd been closer she might have been tempted to ravish him again. She was hopeless. Once in her room, she divested herself of her robe and towel. Finger-combing her damp locks away from her face, she knew they were still a tousled half-hearted mess, and that frustrated her: why should Most Perfect Man have to suffer looking at grotesque yeti? Despite his protestations, she knew that men liked well-groomed women and she was feeling anything but. Maybe he'd give her a little time in the bathroom. Surely he'd understand.

After some digging, she pulled on a pair of pants and khaki-coloured casual cotton slacks. She had just fastened her bra and retrieved a long sleeved rayon pullover to wear when she realized a rapidly approaching Mark was speaking to her. She turned to face the door, holding the shirt up in front of her. Her hair was not only mad but wet, and she was only half-dressed. Her expression was undoubtedly one of mortification. It was one thing to seduce a man fresh out of the shower, but to be disheveled and between stages of dress, hair wild and sopping, seemed anything but sultry.

"…appears to be steak and kidney pie for one, Bridget. I— sorry, didn't mean to— um." He cleared his throat, standing there in the doorway holding a Styrofoam clamshell food container; he seemed to be memorizing every square inch of her, or possibly staring in shock. His voice much quieter, he added, "I was just going to say I don't care much for steak and kidney pie."

Rather than abandoning her in terror, he dropped the clamshell into the bedroom trashbin, took the shirt from her hands, and tossed it onto the bed. He enfolded her into his arms, nuzzling into her neck and nibbling at her earlobe. She felt fingers fumbling with the bra clasp and her knees went wobbly all over again.

"I thought you said you were hungry," she managed between sighs, feeling the bed at the backs of her legs.

He had found success with the clasp and now his hands slipped to the waist of her khaki trousers, pushing them down over her hips.

In a low voice, he said, "I should have specified what for."

* * *

Damp terrycloth heaped on the floor. Her mother would scream bloody murder.

A voice penetrated the haze: "I really am quite famished now."

They were sprawled upon the bed with her half across him, her arm across his chest, her leg over his, and her face mere inches away from his on the pillow. Her eyes were closed, thinking briefly of the towel and robe but mostly about the tingling in her toes. She grunted noncommittally.

"Bridget, did you hear me?"

She raised her head, opened her eyes, and looked at him. "Sorry. All three of you will have to wait on lunch for just a bit longer."

He smiled, raising his hand to caress her face. "I'll take you out."

She thought about it momentarily, imagining the acrobatics her once-wet hair had achieved after that session. There was also the matter of her legs and the fact that she did not seem to have regained control of them yet, though she tried. Wiggling her toes was about as far as she got. "Hm. Not sure I can walk at the moment."

Gently he slipped out from beneath her. "Right. Curry takeaway it is."

* * *

"It's New Year's Eve," he said quite apropos of nothing as they ate yellow curried chicken and naan right there in bed. He'd found a tee shirt for her to slip on and her legs were covered by the sheets, while he had dressed again in his jumper and blue jeans to fetch their very late lunch. He was sitting by her side on the edge of the bed, facing her, with one foot tucked under himself and one foot on the floor.

"Yes, that's true." Honestly, she'd kind of lost track of time.

He looked down into his takeaway container, fishing his fork around in a fidgety way as if attempting to sort the remaining chicken bits into their respective sizes. "I suppose you already have plans?" he asked at last.

She thought of the previous year, being alone, getting pissed and singing badly along with adult contemporary radio. She also vaguely remembered tentative plans with Tom, Jude, Vile Richard, Shazzer and Simon that involved going down to 192 in an attempt to avoid the same fate this year. She swallowed her mouthful. "I don't, actually."

"Ah." He continued fidgeting. "Don't suppose you'd want to spend it with me, hm?" He finally looked up, hope in his big brown eyes.

She would be utterly powerless to refuse anything he asked at this point (as if she'd wanted to), but kept her voice neutral nonetheless. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well… my initial thoughts" – his eyes flicked down to appraise her – "involved considerably more clothing: dinner amongst the social elite, champagne flutes clinking at the stroke of midnight in a room full of sparkling evening gowns and crisp tuxedos, that sort of thing. Frankly, I'd rather have a root canal. So I amend my offer and suggest perhaps a quiet night in, right here, with you."

"Hmmm." She bit her lip and lowered her lunch to her lap. The prospect of a fancy New Year's Eve out on Mark's arm was absolutely delicious to ponder. She hadn't been out socially on a New Year's Eve in ages. But the thought of finding the right thing to wear in practically a moment's notice and _not_ looking like a sausage link, not to mention meeting and mingling with all of those high society women, was enormously stressful. She was suddenly reminded of the _Kafka's Motorbike_ book launch, the evening from hell concluding in one of the biggest mistakes she'd ever made, and the choice became clear.

She narrowed her eyes and said with mock seriousness, "I don't know. I may need some convincing."

In a most atypical manner, he raised a single eyebrow. He took her curry container away, set it down along with his, and slipped out of the jumper and undershirt. Bridget fought very hard to keep her true thoughts from reflecting in her features, and crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back against the pillows. He reached over, tugged the bed sheet down, ran one single hand up along her hip, the other pulling her arms away from her chest, and he bent over to kiss her.

Within minutes the jumper was joined by a pair of blue jeans and an old rock concert tee shirt. A little while later, Bridget announced as she tried to recover her breath, "I accept your offer, Mr. Darcy."

* * *


	5. Part 5

**The Space Between**

by S. Faith ©2006

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

A look at what might have happened between the end of _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the beginning of _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_.

**Part 5**

**Sunday 31 Dec, Cont.**

When next she opened her eyes, she saw he was again fully dressed, pad and pen at his side, as he scooped out what appeared to be the last forkful of his curry. "I'm taking care of everything."

"Wha?"

"Tonight."

Oh, right.

He ate that bite of curry, set down the box and fork, reached over and consulted the list he had already made.

"Let me see."

She reached and plucked the pen and paper from his hands. She couldn't read a word of his list – did lawyers have congenitally bad handwriting like doctors? – so she wrote a new list just beneath.

Things needed for Perfect New Year's Eve:

1.) Champagne.

2.) Mark Darcy.

3.) Kiss at midnight.

The final period was dotted with great flourish, then both pen and paper were handed back to him, a triumphant smile upon her face. He read her addition and looked utterly without words, something that clearly didn't happen often. "Well," he said at last, his tone serious, setting the pen and paper down on her bureau. "Don't imagine I have a leg to stand on, challenging this." Another introspective pause. "Let's go over the list, shall we? Number one. Hm. I've got something suitable in my wine cellar. Number two, present and accounted for." He leaned towards her. "And, well, no harm in continuing to practice for number three."

* * *

As she lay in bed, lazily dozing as she snuggled up with Mark, Bridget realized she had not in fact been fully dressed since Friday. A giggle escaped her. When he asked what was so funny, she told him, and he tightened his embrace. "Hm, from the outside, it _might_ rather look like I'm holding you hostage in here as a sex slave," he said thoughtfully. She laughed again, continuing to be delightfully surprised by this man.

"Ah, but 'hostage' implies being there _against_ one's will," she said matter-of-factly. "Though, hmm, I should ring up Jude and tell her not to count me in for anything tonight."

"Thought you said you didn't have plans…?"

"They were only the sketchiest. And as my Perfect New Year's Eve list has you on it and not Jude, Shazzer, Tom, et cetera, I can say with utmost confidence that I've chosen well."

He squeezed her again.

* * *

"Jude, it's me!" Bridget spoke into the phone in something of a ridiculous stage whisper. "Mark's sleeping."

"Still there, is he?"

"He is, Jude. He is!"

"Hmmmm! Guess there's no judging a book by its cover, hm?"

"_Definitely_ not." Then even more quietly, "I've _lost count_."

Silence. Bridget imagined Jude's mouth was agape.

Finally, Jude exclaimed, "Oh my _God_, a veritable _shagathon_!"

"I _know_!" She looked toward the bedroom door. Ridiculous. As if he could possibly hear from there. "So… um… Mark and I are spending New Year's Eve together."

"Not coming to 192 then?" Jude did not sound shocked.

"Durr." She felt a smile creep across her lips.

"Bridge. I can _hear_ you smiling. Just try not to be too smug about it, okay?"

"I'll try, but you've got to let me know if I do." Jude laughed. "I'm serious! It won't be easy to keep from being smug, here." She heard sounds behind her. "I should go."

"Ta, Bridge. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year."

She set the receiver down and felt a hand graze her hip.

"'Smug', hmm?"

She blushed as she turned to face him.

"Darling, you don't have to sneak around and make secret phone calls to your friends or they _will_ think I'm holding you captive."

She raised her hand to caress his cheek with her fingertips, an inexplicable frisson of delight running through her core at the term of endearment. "I know. Just didn't want to wake you."

He effected a stern expression. "It's six o'clock in the evening. I shouldn't be sleeping anyway." He briefly embraced her, planting a kiss on the top of her head. "How about dinner _outside_ of our little bolt-hole? I have yet to take you on a date."

She grinned playfully. The idea of a first date at this juncture was somewhat comical. "Well, there is the Greek place across the street…"

He looked grim. "Sounds fantastic, except I think I'm still _persona non grata_ there."

"Ooooh, right." She reflected upon the options. As close as they were, pizza and curry were out of the running because a.) they'd already had both and b.) they were takeaway. Local options were dwindling; she didn't want to have to do an immense amount of travel. Then she had a brainstorm. "How about the pub downstairs?"

"Yes. Yes." He looked contemplative. "It's close while still being out, and far less formal than, say, Hintlesham Hall, which is probably booked solid for New Year's Eve…."

Hintlesham Hall! One of those upper echelon places she never thought she'd see the inside of. She suddenly felt the usual insecurity welling up, paired with a strong desire to go.

Transparent as glass, he'd said before. "Unless you'd rather I'd try…?" he asked.

"No, no, the pub is just fine." Her tone sounded like she thought otherwise, and she avoided meeting his eye.

"Is there something else?"

She took in a breath, looked to him. This was it. Worst case scenarios flashed past her mind's eye, of him seeing the error of his ways, fleeing for home for a three-day-long decontamination shower. "Be honest, Mark. Would I _really_ fit in with your crowd at Hintlesham Hall, with my mad hair and, well, Brazil-sized bottom?"

She waited as he considered her intently, until finally he said with serious conviction, "I do not sleep with women who have mad hair. I happen to like your bottom as it is, and you'd fit in because I say you would." Her insecurities were beaten back into submission for the time being. Patting her bottom as if to underscore the point, he added, "Now get dressed, and let's see if we can't get through one whole meal without stopping to, well, you know – _shag_."

Bridget almost fell over in shock. He'd actually _said the word_.

* * *


	6. Part 6

**The Space Between**

by S. Faith ©2006

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

A look at what might have happened between the end of _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the beginning of _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_.

**Part 6**

**Sunday 31 Dec, Cont.**

They strolled from the pub hand in hand. The snow around them seemed to glow with an ethereal light, despite the sun's setting some hours ago. Bridget found it somewhat magical. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, their breath clouding in a trail behind their heads as their feet crunched in the snow.

"I'm excited to see your place," Bridget said.

He shrugged. "It's kind of lonely. You'll see what I mean."

They stopped at the front walk of a house she'd passed many times before, each time gawking like a tourist and wondering who lived in such a grand place. She could hardly believe her eyes. Why on earth were they were spending all of their time in her tiny flat?

On the porch were two small holiday-themed gift bags that he picked up. He peeked inside of one, muttered a "Oh, holy Jesus" under his breath, and set them down on a table just inside the door. She followed closely behind him, feeling that holding on to his hand was the only thing that was keeping her from tripping over her own feet. The inside was just as dazzling and flawless as the outside, with furniture, wall hangings and draperies that probably cost more than she made in a year. Maybe even two.

In the front room, he released her hand, kept walking, and said, "I'll be but a moment."

Breathlessly, she said, "Oh, Mark, this place is amazing!"

He stopped, turned, and smiled. "I'd still rather be in your flat. For its size, it has none of the personality your place has." He headed for the kitchen.

She slipped off her coat and gingerly set it on a chair. She felt like she was in a museum, honestly afraid to touch anything for fear of ruining it. She did a circuit of the room. There were just a few framed photos of Mark and his parents, pretty lamps on end tables, clever books on shelves, but the more she looked around, the more she realized he'd been absolutely right: the place had no life to it, no soul. It was quite empty.

"All set."

She turned, feeling as if she'd been caught doing something forbidden. She realized that he had a lot more than just a bottle in his hand. He had two paper grocery sacks, the gift bags under his arm and he was grinning like a fool.

"I made some… _arrangements_ while you were asleep earlier," he confessed. He indicated one of the smaller bags. "And this is from my mother. It's for you. I make my sincerest apologies in advance."

"Your mother? Why would your mother—?" Her mouth formed a perfect O as the reason became crystal clear. "Oh Mark, you _didn't_."

"I'm sorry." He looked uneasy. "I called her while I was here earlier, and I couldn't keep myself from talking about you."

"Oh my God." It was not his mother that she had a problem with. However, his mother would inevitably talk to her mother. And _then_— "My mother will never let me hear the end of it for not ringing her up immediately and telling her."

In an extremely penitent tone, he offered, "I asked her not to say anything to your mother. You know my mother; she won't."

Relief washed over her, re-solidifying his status as Most Perfect Man Ever (or Space Alien, however one chose to look at it). Earnestly she said, "Mark, I could _kiss_ you. I _will_ kiss you. Thank you."

"I do know what's good for me." His eyes sparkled when he smiled.

Always one happy for a present, she pointed to the colorful gift bag. "So what is it? Your reaction before left a lot to be desired."

"Remember: she means well," he stated cryptically, shifting both grocery bags to one hand and handing her the gift bag with her name on it.

She opened the package and pulled the object up in horror. It was her very own tacky holiday jumper, this one with a snowman wearing a scarf. Not just a scarf, but a _three-dimensional_ scarf that protruded out from the sweater. "I have one that matches," he added helpfully, pulling another out of the second bag.

* * *

"Can I open my eyes yet?"

"Not yet."

Bridget sat at her dining room table, eyes squeezed shut, as she heard the bustle around her of Mark preparing whatever it was he had picked up at the store. She heard the clink of glasses (had he brought those too?) and the _thunk_ of the bottle onto the table; also heard was some plastic rustling, cardboard folding and other sounds that were not so easily identified.

"Okay. Open your eyes."

She did and was stunned. He had a impressive little spread set out of finger foods: prosciutto and basil wrapped in mozzarella cheese and cut into slices, stone-ground wheat crackers with sun-dried tomato dip, Greek olives, marinated mushrooms and, in a small gold box, Belgian chocolates. He'd set up an array of candles and switched the lamp off, so the room glowed a beautiful amber. The centerpiece, though, was comprised of two stunning crystal flutes on either side of a bottle of champagne. She squinted her eyes, looking more closely at the bottle. It was either the best counterfeit she'd ever seen, or—

"Mark, is that _Dom Perignon_?"

"It is."

She felt her mouth gape in disbelief. "And you just sort of had a bottle… _lying around_?"

Looking pleased, he replied, "I was saving it for a special occasion. And as I'd never made it onto a Perfect New Year's Eve list before, well, here we are."

She had no retort to that, and instead turned her attention to the food (as was a long ingrained habit), scooping some dip with a cracker. She grabbed a few olives and popped them into her mouth. She picked up a slice of the mozzarella and prosciutto roll, and took a bite. All of it was divine, and not a beetroot cube, mini-gherkin or stuffed onion amongst the lot. She could only manage an "Mmmmmm" in approval.

"I'm glad you like it. Ah." He looked at his watch. "Five minutes to go, Bridget. I think you need a party hat." Out of the bag he pulled up a glittery cardboard tiara in the most amazingly garish shade of turquoise blue, and a sparkling red top hat for himself, the words HAPPY NEW YEAR emblazoned on both.

She set her new tiara on top of her head. He handed her a noisemaker, which she spun around on its handle to reveal an awful grinding clatter. That, she supposed, was the point. He picked up a fringed blowout that unrolled when blown into, which he demonstrated for her. It made a pathetic sound rather like a dying tuba. "Where did you _get_ all of this?" she said, chuckling.

"A man can't reveal all of his secrets, Bridget."

He grinned slyly, grabbed the bottle of champagne and peeled back the foil. Popping the cork, he filled both flutes and handed one to her. She set her noisemaker down and took it. He glanced down to his watch again, looked to Bridget, held up his flute, and said, "To new beginnings."

They clinked glasses and sipped. With his eye still on the watch, he murmured, "5— 4— 3— 2— 1."

Then he kissed her deeply, the fizz of the champagne still on his lips.

Perfect.

**Monday 1 January**

There was, Bridget decided, a very good reason that Dom Perignon cost what it did. It was smooth and dry, and the buzz was supremely good. They were sitting (perhaps somewhat precariously) on the edge of the table, the champagne and the food (both three quarters gone) between them.

"Here, have the last one." He held a chocolate between his finger and thumb, which he offered to her. She opened her mouth and he fed it to her. She closed her lips around his finger, her teeth grazing his skin as he withdrew it.

"Bridget, you're a naughty girl," he said, his voice suddenly gravelly.

She leaned in towards him. "Is this a complaint…?"

"Just a point of fact." He emptied the rest of the champagne into their flutes, and he surprised her by drinking his down practically in one swallow, his paper top hat tumbling back to the floor. He then hopped down from the table, set his flute down, then turned around to face her. He scrutinized the table, then looked back to her in a calculating fashion, put a hand on each knee to separate them, and stepped as close to her as he could. Placing his hands on her waist and pulling her forward, he kissed her and said close into her ear, "Come on. Your table wouldn't survive the experience."

Feeling quite giddy, she threw back her head and laughed out loud. After knocking back her own champagne, she wrapped her legs around his waist. He lifted her up and carried her towards her bedroom, a bit unsteady on his feet, which might have had less to do with the drink and more to do with the fact that they kissed the for the entire journey, apart from one utterance he made which perplexed her: "I am drinking stars."

* * *

**Note:**

The puzzling quote I found online at www . thorntonwine . com /facts-wines-champagnes.html (emphasis mine):

_In the late 17th century, Dom Perignon discovered that by blending the wine from several of his best vineyards, he could produce a wine greater than any of its components. Intrigued by its naturally sparkling tendencies and helped along by the introduction of glass bottles and corks, Dom Perignon is credited with developing the méthode champenoise, allowing his exquisite cuvée to ferment in individual bottles. _

_When he first tasted his champagne, Dom Perignon is said to have exclaimed, **"I am drinking stars!"**_

* * *


	7. Part 7 Final

**The Space Between**

by S. Faith ©2006

* * *

**Disclaimer:** It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

A look at what might have happened between the end of _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and the beginning of _Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason_.

**Part 7**

**Monday 1 January**

"Bridget, wake up."

His voice came to her as if through a pool of water into which depth charges were being dropped. She blinked blearily, mumbling, "Uhhhdon_wanna_—comebaktobed."

"I have three words for you. Turkey. Curry. Buffet."

"Oh, _shit_." She sat bolt upright. That had gotten her attention. She had been so wrapped up in her little weekend of heaven that she had completely forgotten about the Turkey Curry Buffet, even after her mother's prompting. She glanced at the nightstand clock and saw that she was expected to be there in less than three hours. "_Double shit!_"

She threw back the covers. He watched with amazement as she scoured the room for clean clothes, rampaged to the bathroom for her hairbrush, cursed over the lack of time all around, while uttering the occasional "Gah!" and "Argh!".

"Um," he said, trying to waylay her in passing.

"What?" she groused, stopping in her tracks.

"You are forgetting something quite vital."

"What's that?"

He reached out for her hand. "Three letters. B. M. W."

A smile found its way to her lips, which erupted into a giggle. This would all take some getting used to. In that case…

She queried, "Shower?"

Mark considered for a moment. "Yes, I think there's time."

Devilish grin. "I wasn't asking for permission. That was an invitation."

* * *

Driving together to the annual New Year's Day buffet in Mark's gloriously comfortable car, Bridget was more than a little nervous about showing up to a family function with Mark, not for any reason that had to do with him, but, yes, because of her own mother. Bridget was a grown woman. No mother ought to have this sort of effect on a daughter.

She agreed readily when he'd asked her to wear the snowman jumper, if only to acknowledge, however wordlessly, a thank you to his mother, a much more sensible woman than her own. Bridget liked Elaine very much. Bridget was especially pleased to hear that Elaine had never liked Natasha, and had hoped for her son to end up with Bridget. She beamed to think of it. He wore his new jumper as well, and while she found the idea of matching jumpers a bit appalling, it would be awfully fun to watch people deduce that they were there together. She even fantasized about Mark Darcy punching out pervy old Uncle Geoffrey in her defense after seeing him pinching her bottom for the last time.

"Mmmmm," she murmured lazily, a smile lingering on her lips.

"What's that?" he asked, changing lanes in anticipation of the correct junction.

"Was just thinking it will be delightful to not endure a barrage of questions about when I'm going to find a boyfriend." Realizing how awfully presumptuous she sounded, she sat up in the seat with a sudden surge of utter panic and added, "I mean, if you are— I mean, if you consider yourself to be— ah— well—" Sinking back into the seat as much as she could, she decided to shut up, not wishing to dig herself in any deeper.

He was focused and quiet as he continued driving, his expression unchanged. Sometimes he was so hard to read. Even his voice was inscrutable when he spoke. "Bridget, I realize we've gone from zero to one-hundred in five seconds flat—" He glanced to her and only then cracked a smile, resting his left hand upon her knee. "—but yes, I think you can safely consider me your boyfriend." The smile lingered, and she considered what a handsome smile it was. "I am far more interested in you beyond this remarkable weekend."

Mark had a special gift for leaving her speechless.

A short time later, they arrived at the Joneses. Mark parked in the only spot available at the end of the drive. They emerged from the car but as he walked up the drive, Bridget hung back by the car. He turned around, furrowed his brow. "Bridget?"

She fumbled with the contents of her handbag, found her quarry, and held up a packet of Silk Cut. "I'm going to have a quick cig. I know you don't like my smoking but I need a bit of… mental reinforcement before I head in there."

"Do you want me to wait with you?"

She shook her head, gestured as if sweeping him towards the entrance. "Go on ahead."

"If you're sure."

She nodded. He smiled and headed towards the door.

Watching his figure recede, she leaned up against the car and drew in a long drag. She hadn't had a cigarette since Friday and felt guilty for having one now. Hell, it was an excellent trade, cigs in for shagging, and it wasn't as if she'd have to think more than a second to choose the latter over the former. But it did all happen so fast, didn't it? It had only been a little over two days since her friends intended to sweep her off to Paris for the weekend to help her forget about him being in New York with that viper Natasha. What if, after the glow faded, he decided she wasn't worth it after all, or realized he'd made a terrible error?

Gah. She was overanalyzing things again.

After the final drag, she stubbed the butt into the snow with the toe of her shoe, sat for some minutes more before grudgingly headed up the drive towards the front door. She was met at the door by her mother (Terror! Mother would surely be able to tell instantly!), who collected her coat with nary a comment, walking away back into the party. Hmmm. Perhaps "I slept with Mark Darcy" was not in fact written on her forehead in ink that only mothers could see.

She walked into the sitting room, briefly conversing with Uncle Geoffrey as he grabbed her bottom (she hoped dearly that Mark had seen). With an eerie sense of déjà vu, she saw Mark standing with his back to her, drink in hand, in the very same place she'd seen him the previous year. For a fleeting moment she thought the whole year (and certainly the past weekend) had been nothing but the product of her imagination; as he turned, he saw her and bestowed a smile upon her that told her that it had been no such thing, not in the least.

She heard her mother come up from behind with all the subtlety of an approaching ambulance. "Mark! _Mark!_ I'm sure you remember Bridg—" At precisely that moment, her gaze fixed upon his jumper, then onto Bridget's; the fast and furious mental calculations were plainly visible on Pamela's face.

"Mrs. Jones. Of course I do." He reached his hand out towards Bridget, which she took with her own. He pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her waist. Her face raged red involuntarily, which deepened when she felt his hand move to her bottom (she hoped dearly that Uncle Geoffrey had seen).

Her mother at first looked shocked, then slowly grinned from ear to ear. In fact, Bridget struggled to think when she had ever seen her mother look so happy or proud of her.

* * *

It was dark when they departed the best Turkey Curry Buffet in living memory. No harrassment about the state of love lives; they mostly stayed at one another's side, holding hands and chatting amicably with family and friends. His parents seemed pleased; she watched his father for signs of disapproval as she was nothing like that clever Natasha, but could thankfully find none. Her father was overjoyed to see his daughter so happy and her mother was beside herself with glee that Bridget had hooked such a magnificent catch (imagery that frankly made Bridget squirm, but it was her mother, after all).

The ride back to London was as smooth as could be, and so after such a magnificent day it was easy for Bridget to fall asleep during the drive home. She was dreaming of champagne, well-placed kisses and chocolate when she felt fingertips playing upon her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open and looked to him. "So sorry to wake you, but we're back."

She stretched and yawned. "Mmmm."

"I think that went well, didn't you?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Look, Bridget," he began, looking down through the steering wheel; her heart plummeted into her feet. She sat up, realizing he had stopped at the kerb outside of her building. "Tomorrow I have to work, as do you, so given our track record so far it's probably a bad idea for me to come upstairs with you."

She sighed. "You're right; I know you're right. I just don't want it to end."

He placed his hand on top of hers, and said quietly, "I don't either. But the reality of it is—"

She looked up to him. "Reality _sucks_," she blurted petulantly.

He chuckled, undoubtedly reminded of previous comments regarding verbal incontinence. "That it does." He stroked her cheek, looking rather conflicted. "Tell you what. I'll come up to get my things, and we can give our excellent weekend a proper send-off before we have to face the harsh, cruel reality of our lives."

"Okay."

They walked up the stairs hand in hand. She slipped her key into the lock and they entered the flat, in a slight if comfortable disarray once again. He helped her out of her coat, and rested it over the staircase railing, then removed his own and laid it beside hers. He looked to her, and said in a low tone, "…just can't imagine."

"What's that?" she asked.

He was silent for many moments, searching for the right words to adequately describe his thoughts. Finally, he said, "Logic and reason says this is just the newness of it all… but every time I look at you… I can't imagine not wanting to immediately take you in my arms and take you off to bed."

Her heart did another little flip-flop. Undoubtedly Most Perfect Man. Cautiously, she asked, "You shouldn't stay over though, right? Get up, go to work, harsh reality and all that?"

"I don't have to stay." He approached her, took her hands. "Let's make the best of our evening here." He then reached and pulled the edge of the jumper upwards and over her head, saying, "Let's also get that silly jumper off, hm?"

**Tuesday 2 Jan**

It was morning.

"Bloody hell," said Mark Darcy.

* * *

_The end._

* * *

**Note:**

I know in at the start of _The Edge of Reason_, she arrives to the Turkey Curry Buffet by taxi, but I could think of no logical way that she'd be arriving by taxi in the context of this story. I'm not sure why the movie handled it this way, either – as if Mark would make her taxi in from London:)

* * *


End file.
